Black Dog

One

Stone Barrington sat at his desk in his office on the ground floor of his Turtle Bay townhouse, finishing a stack of work that his secretary, Joan Robertson, had created to keep him busy. He was a senior partner at Woodman & Weld, a prestigious firm housed nearby in the Seagram Building, on Park Avenue at Fifty-Third Street. But he preferred to work in his home office, because people didn’t wander up and down the halls asking him to work on the accounts of various clients.

Joan rapped on his door and came into his office. “I have a new client for you,” she said. “Don’t groan and roll your eyes.”

Stone stifled a groan and tried to keep his eyes straight ahead. “All right, what waif have you picked up on the street?”

“She’s not a waif, she’s an aunt. Mine. My mother’s younger sister. Her name is Annetta Charles.”

“Why isn’t her name Robertson, like yours?”

“Because she had the wit to marry a very rich man named Edwin Charles.”

Some switch in his frontal lobe came on. “Edwin Charles?”

“I’ll wait while you try and catch up,” Joan said.

“The Edwin Charles?”

“Welcome back to full consciousness.”

Edwin Charles, Stone now remembered, had occupied an elevation at approximately the Rockefeller level of existence. He had died a few months earlier from mysterious ill health. “And how may I serve dear Mrs. Charles?”

“She’s going to explain that to you,” Joan said. “Shall I show her in?”

“Does she have an appointment?”

“Aunt Annetta does not make appointments. She just arrives, and people — smart people — see her immediately.”

“Any advice?”

“Don’t kowtow too much. She doesn’t like it.”

Stone stood up and put on his jacket. “Please don’t keep Mrs. Charles waiting.”

Joan disappeared and returned a moment later, escorting a handsome woman who appeared to be somewhere in her forties. She was perfectly dressed in the manner of New York’s women of the Upper East Side, and even managed to show a bit of tasteful cleavage.

“Stone,” Joan said, “this is my aunt Annetta, Mrs. Edwin Charles. Aunt Annetta,” she said, “this is Mr. Stone Barrington, a senior partner of Woodman & Weld.”

“How do you do?” she said to Stone.

“Very well, thank you. Will you please be seated?”

She did so, flashing a glimpse of thigh as she crossed her legs.

“How may I be of assistance to you?” Stone asked.

“I want to make a new will,” she replied. As she did so, she reached into her commodious handbag, withdrew a thick document, and tossed it onto Stone’s desk. It landed with a thump.

“May I ask, what firm currently represents you?” Stone asked, thumbing through it.

“A little collection of desks called Woodman & Weld,” she said pleasantly. “I called my attorney, Ralph Mason, for a revision and was told that he was dead. I must say, I would have thought the firm would have notified me.”

“Mr. Mason, I’m sorry to say, passed away the day before yesterday,” Stone replied. “I assure you notification is on its way.”

“Well, at least he had an excuse for not returning my call.” She brushed away some imaginary lint from her skirt.

“I’ll read this just as soon as possible,” Stone said.

“It won’t be as hard as you might imagine,” she said. “I’ve no quarrel with the contents except for the one document relating to my stepson, Edwin Jr.”

Stone grabbed a legal pad and unsheathed his pen. “What changes would you like to make?”

“First, excise page three: that’s the page outlining my stepson’s legacy.”

Stone found page three, pulled it from the document, and set it aside. “Done.”

“Now, I would like you to set up a trust for Eddie,” she said. “It should pay him one hundred thousand dollars a month, for my lifetime.”

“For your lifetime?”

“Yes.”

“Why your lifetime, not his?”

“It’s the only way I can think of to stop him from killing me.”

Stone was brought up short.

“Let me explain,” she said. “Since my husband’s death, I have been receiving threatening notes. I am certain they are from Eddie. He is the black dog of the family.”

“You mean ‘black sheep’?”

“There is no sheep in Eddie,” she said. “He’s all dog, all the way through, and a mean one at that.”

“I see,” Stone replied, although he did not. “And what happens to his bequest after your death?”

“The bequest outlined in the present will is to be paid into the trust you are creating, and he may withdraw funds from it only with the permission of the trustee.”

“And who would you like the trustee to be?”

“You.”

Stone blinked. “Why, may I ask?”

“I happen to know — and this is not by way of your secretary — that you have a son who received a large bequest, that you are his trustee, and that you have done a remarkably good job in that role.”

“Well, I’m grateful for the praise, whatever its origin. Perhaps you could tell me a little about Edwin Charles Jr.?”

She shrugged. “Eddie is, not to put too fine a point on it, a right little shite.”

“That is rather a broad description,” Stone replied. “Could you be more specific?”

“His father had become sick, and instead of caring for the man, all Eddie could see was the paycheck. All he did was badger his father for more money, right on his deathbed. Eddie is selfish, to the point of caring nothing about the feelings or needs of any other person; he is cruel, unfeeling, and, at once, both priggish and piggish. He is demanding, but ungiving, foul of both tongue and temper. Now I feel that twistedness turning in my direction.”

“Why don’t you cut him off entirely?” Stone asked.

“Eddie may seem simply a nuisance, but there is a dangerous side to him. Full disinheritance might set that off sooner than one would like. But I want it part of the document that he is never again to enter my home or any room of any other house where I might be present. Did I mention that I want you to explain all this to him?”

“Ah, no.”

“I would imagine that, being a lawyer, the first thing that entered your mind was ‘What’s in it for me?’ ”

“Actually, that was the second or third thing that entered my mind.”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” she said. “If I approve of the way you write this document, and the manner in which you impart the news to Eddie, I will withdraw all my legal representation by other firms and move everything to Woodman & Weld, to be supervised by you. And before you ask, my legal expenses last year exceeded a million and a half dollars. In some years, it has been substantially more.”

Stone buzzed Joan, and she appeared in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”

“Please print out our standard client representation agreement for your aunt’s signature. And I will make revisions to her will, which will be slight, and you can prepare it for her signature. Please gather three witnesses.”

“I like the way you work, Stone, if I may call you that. And you must call me Annetta.”

“Of course, Annetta,” Stone replied.

A little more than an hour later, Annetta Charles signed her new will, which included the trust for Edwin Charles Jr., and it was duly witnessed by members of Stone’s household staff.

Fortified by a good lunch, Annetta Charles said her goodbyes and was escorted to her waiting car by her niece.

Joan came back a moment later. “By the way,” she said, “Aunt Annetta is sixty.”